


Rewind

by Anonymous



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, BBC Radio 1, Established Relationship, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 08:55:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30036192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It all started the day Nick was an hour late for work. Or nine hours early, depending on your perspective.Or: the one where Nick forgets five years of his life and the fact that he doesn't hate Louis Tomlinson.
Relationships: Nick Grimshaw/Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7
Collections: Anonymous





	Rewind

**Author's Note:**

> I've rated this G, but please aware that is does contain a fair amount of swearing. 
> 
> I love a good amnesia fic, but I've never tried my hand at it before. It's a trope that really suits long, angst-filled epics, but I didn't have the energy for that, so I hope this short take on the concept works well enough. Warning for the usual medical inaccuracies, and also this is 100% fiction, despite using real names and the occasional real event. The characters in this are just that - made up characters.

It all started the day Nick was an hour late for work. Or nine hours early, depending on your perspective. 

It hadn’t been a good morning. He’d woken, head banging, on his bathroom floor, his dignity only protected by his boxers. A glance at his phone revealed the stupid alarm hadn’t gone off, and he was very,  _ very, _ late.

He’d shelled out for a cab, frantically trying to style his hair and shove contacts in his eyes in the back seat - which is a  _ feat, _ and he’s weirdly proud of accomplishing it - and flown into the Radio 1 studios only to find Greg James in his chair. Greg raises an eyebrow at Nick’s dishevelled appearance, but he refuses to be cowed. It’s arse o’clock in the morning and by the state of his head it was a heavy night; he’d thrown on the only clothes in sight. Come to think of it, the sleeves of this jumper are a bit short. It must’ve shrunk in the wash.

“Nick?” asks a voice behind him. He turns to find a blonde woman, maybe in her late twenties. She’s got winged eyeliner and thin lips and a bulging notebook and he’s pretty sure he’s never seen her before in his life, but she’s in the inner sanctum of Radio 1. 

“Hello?” he says, then clears his throat. “Uh, Greg’s in. Did I book holiday and forget about it?” He knows he’s been working hard, but that’s a stretch. He loves his job but he loves holidays too. He’d be on a beach somewhere if he’d done that, surely.

She grins at him and touches him on the arm. It’s all friendly; Nick’s no stranger to casual affection - but it is a little bit odd when he has no idea what her name is and she’s probably not meant to be here. And neither of them are liquored up. Although, he might still be from last night. God, where did they even go? The whole night is a black hole.

“Funny. Missed the breakfast crew that much, did you?”

“Nick?”

“Francesca!” he exclaims, turning to his favourite producer, wandering in with a takeaway coffee cup and a bag that probably contains her usual cinnamon pastries. “I am so sorry for turning up late, let me grovel, let me beg your forgiv-”

“Nick, you’re early. Really early.”

“Early?”

“For your show,” she says slowly, “that starts at three? Drivetime?”

“But that’s…” he trails off. That’s Greg’s. But Greg is looking quite at home nattering away behind the glass at the crack of dawn, red  _ on air  _ light burning brightly. He’s practically bushy tailed, and waves at Nick. Nick ignores it.

Francesca frowns and lays a cool hand on his forehead. She’s a good foot shorter than him, and raises on her tiptoes to do it. “Are you alright?”

“I’m the breakfast show host,” he says quietly.

“You’re drivetime,” she says, just as seriously, back. “Nick, have you forgotten? Or is this all some kind of stupid practical joke? Or part of a new segment you forgot to run past anyone?”

He does that, he knows he does. Sometimes he wants to check something’s going to work before he bothers producers with it. Other times it’s just fun to keep everyone on their toes. But he’s definitely the breakfast show host. He was yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that was Sunday so he’d slept until eleven and royally screwed up his sleep schedule. 

He points at Greg. “That’s my show.”

“What year is it?” asks the blonde woman. 

What a stupid question. “2014.”

“This isn’t a joke?” she asks, and Nick huffs a little - it’s a bit early in the day for much patience, so sue him, apparently he’s not on the clock anyway - and catches sight of the calendar over her shoulder. 2019. Do they make calendars that far in advance, he wonders frantically. They probably do, right?

“It’s… nice calendar,” he forces out over a thick tongue. “Bit early, isn’t it? Couldn’t have gone for 2015, that’d still make me… um, make me…” 

Francesca isn’t the type to joke, that’s the problem. Greg would, and he has no idea about this new woman, but Francesca wouldn’t stand for a prank that catapulted him five years into the future. And if he gets right down to it, he never planned to be the breakfast show guy forever. He hates an early morning. “Fran?” he asks.

“Get Vick on the phone, will you Ali? See if she can cover. Nick… I think we need to find you a doctor.”

\--

Amnesia. 

Ridiculous.

Okay, so probably true; he’s pretty sure Greg doesn’t have the contacts to swing a fake A&E diagnosis. But still. It’s something that happens in films. Not to radio DJs who apparently must have slipped in the bathroom last night and blacked out five years of their life.

Five  _ years. _

At least he’s looking good for it.

They run test after test, book him a thousand check-up appointments, and then he’s promptly discharged. It’s only half past one. He could make the show. When had Fran said drivetime started now? Three?

“Absolutely not,” she says sternly, when he runs this idea past her. “You’re going home, under  _ doctor’s orders.” _ She hustles him into her passenger seat, and somehow, the realisation that she’s driving something other than old Ford Focus she swore she’d never part with hits him right in the chest.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” she asks, as they pull up outside his place. The curtains are still drawn. A newspaper is half stuffed through the flap. He locked that door in 2014 and he’s going to unlock it in 2019 and yet the milk in his fridge won’t even have gone off.

“Fine, fine,” he blusters. “So long as no one’s invented hoverboards yet, me heart couldn’t take the shock of living in Back to the Future.”

“You’re safe on that one.” She smiles awkwardly, and hands over his pack of pills and repeat prescription slips, mainly for the headache that he thought was just a hangover. They’re good stuff - wiped the pain away like Fairy on grease, as his mum used to say. “Keep me updated, yeah? You’re off for the week, but if you need longer. Just say. Or if you just need to talk.”

“I’ll be right as rain,” he promises with a sunny smile, and escapes before she can sign him off for months. That’s the problem with making colleagues your mates. The friendship world won’t let you bury yourself in the work world, and will know immediately if you try.

His key still fits in the lock just the same. He supposes he should be happy he hasn’t moved. That would have been awkward. 

“Nick!” 

He’s almost barrelled over by brown curls and long limbs. He catches the figure subconsciously, only then realising he’s got an armful of Harry Styles. 

“Let him breathe, Haz!”

He knows that voice. He stiffens at the feel of a third hand, settling just below his shoulder blades. He wriggles backwards, shaking it off.

“What? Wait, what? Harry - what are you even doing here?” Amnesia, he thinks frantically, just because 2014 Harry was on tour doesn’t mean 2019 Harry is, he’s probably in London on promo or a break, but that doesn’t explain why he’s in his flat when Nick wasn’t, and  _ really _ doesn’t explain why Louis bleeding Tomlinson is edging closer like he’s about to deal out his own hug. “What?” he says again.

“Greg rang,” Harry says breathily. “Sorry, sorry, that was a bit much, wasn’t it? You - it’s 2014 for you?”

“It’s still 2019,” he says grumpily. He tugs Harry in again, because it’s actually been months since they last saw each other, and Harry might have lost his lovely long hair but he’s one of his best mates and it’s been way too long even if you don’t count the extra five years. “I’ve just forgotten a few things. Like, are you here for promo? Was I meant to interview you?”

“Er, no.”

“What did the doctor say?” asks Louis.

“When will you remember?” 

He turns to answer Harry. “It should come back, they think - there’s a good chance anyway.” It feels odd to say. Because he’s essentially lost years of his life, but he also doesn't  _ feel  _ like he’s lost anything. He’s changed show, apparently, but he’s living in the same flat and he’s got at least some of the same friends. “But there are no timelines, no guarantees. It’s a gamble, memory stuff.” 

“What about shocks?”

“Shocks?” He glances up as he asks, catches sight of Louis still hovering in the door to the lounge. He’s taken his shoes off. His white socks are stained. Can’t a global popstar afford clean socks?

“Like, should we tell you what you’ve missed?”

He turns back to Harry. “They think I should get back to my normal life. I guess that means having people fill me in.” He smiles sheepishly and brandishes a carrier bag at Harry. “Fran bought me a paper and some gossip magazines.”

“Great,” Harry says distractedly. “So, Nick-”

“Tea!” yelps Louis. 

“Not now Lou-”

“Yeah, no I think  _ now-” _

“In a  _ minute-” _

Tea sounds pretty great, actually. He’d also quite like to get out of his entryway, maybe put his bag down. But he’s not taking Louis Tomlinson’s side. 

“Oh,” says Harry, looking at Nick. He seems to deflate. “Yeah, tea. And a sit down.”

If he was feeling better he’d make a snarky comment about being treated like an old man, that Harry’s not a whippersnapper himself anymore. It’d make Harry laugh, and if he was particularly creative, he’d be able to work in an insult to Louis as well. His remarks are multitalented like that. It’s just been a long day. And Harry does look different, and he’s not sure he wants to poke at that just yet. It’s almost easier to look to Louis, because at least he doesn’t care what he’s missed there. 

He hasn’t eaten since 2014. 

“And a biscuit,” Louis says quietly. “I’ll make it.”

He’s not sure he wants Louis poking around in his kitchen, actually, but the alternative is he stays here, so. “Soy milk for me, and-”

“I know how to make your tea,” Louis shoots back, eyes rolling, then freezes. “I mean…” He shifts his eyes to the side and stalks out of the room. 

“This is weird right?” asks Harry, looking at him ruefully. “Let’s go sit down.”

“Why’ve you brought him anyway?” he asks, toeing off his boots and following Harry into the lounge. An afternoon curling up with his best mate sounds pretty awesome actually, but having his best mate’s other best mate glaring at them from the armchair will be the opposite of restful. Harry sits and pats the sofa cushion next to him, and Nick drops into it. Harry’s a good cuddler, twining them together until Nick’s head rests on his shoulder. “D’he get abandoned by the rest of your entourage? I imagine they’re sick of him. Can’t you send him home?”

“Oh.” Louis places a tray Nick doesn’t recognise carefully on the coffee table. It holds three mugs, a punnet of red grapes and an open packet of dark chocolate hobnobs. “Um.”

He’s not going to apologise. Louis is the one hanging about in Nick’s house uninvited. 

“Now can I tell him?” Harry asks plaintively. Louis nods sharply, hovers, and then hands out the tea like Nick said nothing at all. He folds himself into the armchair; for such a large personality, such a spiky persona, he tucks down into almost nothing. His hands are rucked up in the sleeves of his trackie top like he might disappear entirely. 

Nick’s never known him not to argue back.

“Nick,” Harry says hesitantly. He leans forward and sets his tea on the table, then curls his hands around Nick’s arm. “Nick, we’re together.”

Together. Obviously they’re together. Unless that’s not what Harry meant. “Together?”

“Like… boyfriends.”

He remembers meeting Harry and immediately tamping down on those inappropriate thoughts. It only got worse when he got to know him. He’s never felt more like an old man than when Harry Styles grins or flips his hair or says something in that  _ voice  _ of his and something tugs in Nick’s gut and then he remembers, God he  _ remembers,  _ he’s practically a child - 

But he’ll be what, 25 now? 26? 

“Nick?” asks Louis. 

“Why are you  _ here?” _ he explodes.

“I- Nick, we’re-” Harry stutters, his grip tightening, but all Nick can see is Louis. He looks… bruised. “Nick, we’re boyfriends.”

Oh. Oh, of course. It’s a bit exotic - a bit  _ modern, _ ha! Because he’s in the future - but he can see a world where he’d have settled for a Harry that left him behind sometimes to go off with Louis Tomlinson. Long tours - he can’t say he understands, but he gets it. He can’t imagine he was really okay with it, but he gets it. A little bit of Harry Styles is better than nothing. 

“Right,” he says tightly. “But right now, I think, I need you more than he does, so maybe he could fuck off? Just for today?”

“No, no, no,” Harry says. “No Nick, all of us, we’re  _ all  _ boyfriends - Lou, say something?”

“It’s true.”

He gapes. And then he gets it.

It’s a bit cruel, he thinks, pranking the amnesiac. But that’s Louis all over, and Harry’s easily corruptible. He probably doesn’t know how Nick feels about him - he’s done his best to keep it hidden, after all, to hide the crush under friendliness. 

“Ha!” he forces out with a strained grin. “Good one guys.” 

It would be better, prank-wise, if they’d left Louis out, of course. The point of a prank is for it to be something he could fall for - he could believe being with Harry. He had, for half a shining minute - they could easily have spun it out for a while. Maybe it’s less cruel they added Louis. It broke the illusion before it could properly take hold, no world in which the two of them could co-exist as anything more than grudgingly civil, and even then only on a good day. Today is decidedly not a good day, and it’s a struggle to breathe through the flash of anger.

“It’s not a joke, love.” He feels Harry’s voice vibrating through his side. 

“It’s important to know when to give up, Harold,” he replies tautly. “When you’ve been found out, call it quits.” He’s tired. He just wants Tommo fucking Tomlinson out of his house so he can collapse, with or without Harry. Preferably with. He could do with a nap, and Harry will probably be the big spoon if he asks nicely. After going along with this prank, he owes Nick one.

“It’s not a joke!”

“You’re being very quiet, Tomlinson. It’s unlike you to miss a chance to get out the thumbscrews.”

“I wouldn’t,” he whispers. “You’re hurting, I wouldn’t do that. But it’s not a joke.” He’s curled around his tea mug; it says ‘world’s best big brother’, the paint dulled and washed out with time. 

He barks a laugh. It’s a good act. The hurt expression, the concern - it makes sense if they’re still trying to get Nick to fall for it. Of  _ course  _ he wouldn’t be the Louis he knows, the Louis he hates, not if they’re meant to be - what? Awkwardly sharing Harry? Knocking boots? In  _ love? _

It’s unthinkable.

He pushes himself up from the sofa. There’s a framed photo of a gaggle of girls he doesn’t recognise on the bookcase, leaning up against books he hasn’t read. He stalks through to the bathroom. They’ve gone to a lot of effort, he realises - three toothbrushes by the sink, were they there when he staggered out this morning? He was so late, frantic, and he barely had his eyes open. There are two types of shampoo in the shower. He staggers to the bedroom. It’s a mess; the sheets in disarray, clothes strewn on the floor. That could be him though, he’s not the neatest first thing in the morning. He pulls open the wardrobe.

Skinny jeans.

Flowery shirts. 

Tracksuits.

He whirls around. Harry and Louis are in the doorway. Harry has his arm looped around Louis’ waist, the two of them gathered up in each other, and Nick can’t breathe.

Who the fuck goes to these sorts of lengths to prank an amnesiac? He’s ill, for fuck’s sake. 

“What the fuck?” he hears himself yell, as if from three rooms away. He yanks at the tracksuits, the fabric stretching in his hands until the hangers release and he can tear them away, throw them to the floor in a heap. “Get your fucking crap out of my house!”

“Nick!”

“It’s not a joke, Nick-” He’s caught. Arms around his chest, holding him from behind, except the head is between his shoulders, not tall enough to hook over near his neck. He shudders. “Nick, please, I love you, Nick, this isn’t a joke babe-”

He stills. “Get off me.”

The arms fall away, but he can’t make himself turn and face the two of them. He can still feel Louis’ phantom touch. It’s quite some dedication to a prank. Louis’ a good actor, it turns out. 

“I think I should go,” Louis says quietly.

“No, Lou, we can work through this.”

“He’s not-” a hitch in breathing. “He doesn’t know me, he doesn’t want me here.”

It’s the truth, he doesn’t. He refuses to feel bad about that. 

“But we can-”

“Haz, let me-” there’s a pause, and he can’t picture what’s happening. Is Harry folding Louis into himself? Is he crying? “I’m gonna stay with Li.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Look after him, yeah?”

There’s no answer. Harry must nod or something, because when Louis speaks again it's louder; meant for his ears.

“Feel better, Nick. This must… this must all be overwhelming. I’m so sorry. I love you.”

He knows he’s left alone, because he hears two sets of feet working their way to the front door, then murmured voices. The door closes, the lock turns, and footsteps start back his way. He dives into bed, pulling the covers tight over his head. “I’m going to take a nap,” he says when he estimates Harry is probably in the doorway again. A weight settles next to him, and a hand strokes softly over his back until he falls asleep.

\--

He gets back into his life. The memories don’t return, but the headaches dissipate, and he manages to work again. Drivetime is great - maybe it doesn’t have the kudos of the breakfast show, but his bedtime isn’t nine PM any more either, so he’s pretty sure it’s the best decision he ever made. Scott gives him pointers on the hot new songs, and producer Ian teases his new retro sound when he veers back into 2014 hits. He tries to catch up with what he missed in his free time. He works out a new segment where callers quiz him on the last few years and he competes in a league table against himself; so far Thursday Nick somehow always seems to have the edge. It’s okay. It’s working. He still knows how to be funny, after all, and it’s a pretty unique situation. He may as well take advantage.

He finds out One Direction broke up much later than he should have done, given Harry is still haunting his flat. The bookcase photo of girls disappears - he waits a week, and then asks Harry. Turns out they were Louis’ sisters, and he’s met them all, but only the oldest, Lottie, knows the full story. Harry is the source of all the new reading material - he comes back from work day after day to find him sprawled on the sofa with his nose in a book and a cold cup of coffee at his side. There are only two toothbrushes by the sink now, and Harry uses one shampoo bottle while he uses the other. Harry sniffs his hair too deeply one evening, cuddling on the couch, and Nick laughs at him and prods until Harry looks far too upset for a bit of gentle teasing. He nudges then, instead, until Harry admits it’s his favourite smell; that it’s home. That Nick and Louis share that shampoo and it reminds him of both of them. 

He stares at the bottle the next morning. He considers using Harry’s, but it feels a bit obvious and also Harry’s smells of something sweet yet exotic, which Nick’s not sure he could pull off. There’s less than a third of the bottle left. He’ll just buy something different when it runs out.

Harry has a solo career, it seems. He’s even done films. They watch Dunkirk one evening with a takeaway, and it leaves Nick speechless, dripping masala sauce in his lap. The days roll on, more and more with no memories surfacing, but they’re almost like Nick remembers, only better because Harry isn’t running off every other week to tour America, or Australia, or Europe. They cuddle, even if Harry holds himself oddly sometimes. They don’t kiss. Harry sleeps on his sofa, and occasionally in his bed, and three nights a week he disappears without saying where he’s going. He doesn't have to. 

Nick doesn’t see Louis. 

He’d cracked his phone password three days post-blackout and found a trove of photos and messages that made him blush. He knows it’s not a prank now, but he still doesn't see how the two of them could ever be that, even if Harry was running interference. He can’t imagine saying those things, doing those things. 

Okay, some of them he can. But just because Louis is fit doesn't mean he wants to shack up with the brat.

Except, he’s not so brattish in their messages. He’s kind of… sweet, in a way that really doesn’t compute, like the Louis of those messages is an imposter. And his album is really fucking good, not that he’s ever going to tell anyone that. He tells Harry his solo albums are great because they are too. He’s so proud. Everything new he finds out about Harry is another reason to love him.

But it’s all good. He’s got everything he had before.

\--

Harry’s gone for the evening. He’s out with Cara Delavigne’s crew, and he invited Nick, but it’s been a long week. He collapses on the sofa with a series of Drag Race he apparently texted Harry about constantly when it aired back in 2017, but is completely new to him now. He’s got a bottle of red wine too. It’s a perfect evening.

He’s fucking bored.

He’s lonely, he realises. He flicks through his phone, refreshing Twitter, then over to Instagram. He’s got no new messages but he opens WhatsApp anyway, which is what everyone uses nowadays instead of texts. Harry is right at the top, but Harry is busy. His thumb slides the screen down, down, and hovers over a familiar face.  _ Lou Bear. _

He opens it. The last message was nearly three months ago:  _ Night babe, see you tomorrow. _ Five words. Harry told him the two of them had been over at Liam’s; a lads’ bonding night with Niall over from Ireland. Catching up. He wonders what might have happened if they’d been home, found him on the bathroom floor. Whether he’d still have lost that time. If the black hole might have been lesser; three years, or two. Or one. 

That would have changed everything. They’ve been together just over a year, Harry told him. Only a few people know - their nearest and dearest. It’s the kind of relationship that would raise eyebrows whoever they were, but the combination of the three of them - boy band scandal, age differences, Larry rumours, heartbroken fangirls - would have set the gossip rags on fire. Apparently they’d been working up to it. Then all this happened, and now he hasn’t seen Louis in nearly three months.

His thumb judders, and before he realises it a call has connected. He didn’t even know WhatsApp did calls.

“Nick?”

It’s him. He sounds hesitant.

“Louis?”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m…” What is he, really? Bored, lonely. Louis loved him. He loved Louis once, even if it has all been cut away like it never existed. “I’m fine.” The silence sounds vaguely judgemental. He’s surprised to find he doesn't feel judged. “Are you at Liam’s?”

“Yeah, I - yeah.”

“Why didn’t you go to your house?” Harry had said Louis has a house up in Doncaster. And another in LA, apparently, because you can take the popstar out of the band, but not the lifestyle. Sometimes Harry clams up and refuses to talk about them; how they were together, or things every boyfriend would know. Other times he peppers facts into conversation like if he drops enough Nick’s brain will jolt back into action and they’ll all go skipping through the park hand in hand. 

It hurts, sometimes, that he’s not enough. That Harry won’t just be with him. Won’t kiss him until he knows what that feels like again.

“I wanted to be close by.”

“It’s been three months.”

“Not quite.” A sigh. “It could be three years, Nick, longer. I’d still be here.”

It’s too much, suddenly. He shouldn’t have made this call; they were fine, they were all jogging along, he thought - but Louis is waiting. For memories Nick doesn’t think will ever return. For a future they won’t have. Something he doesn't recognise twinges in his chest. 

“I’m not - I don’t know…”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Louis…”

“I’m not expecting anything.” He sounds shaky, Nick thinks, and wonders how he knows. It’s like he’s analysed this voice, like he can see the expression on Louis’ face that accompanies each breathy word. “We were happy, but you don’t - you don’t owe me anything. But if you ever need me, you just have to call.”

He remembers Harry saying how much he’s always leaned on Louis. It was easy to see, back in the band days, especially early on. How he turned to Louis to check things were okay, for support, for encouragement. Even now he literally drapes himself over the smaller man, trusting Louis to hold him up. Louis picked Liam up as well, Harry said, chilled him out and cheered him up, bullied him through break ups until he smiled again. And his sisters, who’d be lost without him. And brother now, he keeps forgetting. 

“Are you okay?” he asks suddenly, urgently. 

“I’m good Nick.” He can hear the smile. He can hear the lie. “Get some sleep, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay.” 

He hangs up and stares at his phone. Then he picks himself up off the sofa and staggers through to his bed, dropping down onto the duvet fully dressed. Sleep sounds good.

\--

The alarm is tinny, annoying like a tiny fly buzzing in his ear. He groans and shifts, flailing an arm, and hits a warm body. He’s tired and stiff, uncomfortable from sleeping in his jeans. “Harry, shut it up,” he begs.

“‘S your side,” Harry grumbles into his shoulder. “‘N I’m hungover, ‘m not moving.”

“Lou,” he whines, flopping over. “Get the alarm, fuck.”

Harry sits bolt upright.

“Haz?” 

_ “Lou,  _ get it?” Harry yelps. 

The alarm is still beeping shrilly, and Nick pushes himself upright, searching desperately for his phone. He finally locates it and jabs at the buttons until it goes silent. Harry tackles him.

_ “Lou  _ get it?!” he shrieks in Nick’s face, and he goes to push him away - where is Lou anywa-

Oh. Oh God.

The last three months flood into his tired brain, and tears spring to his eyes. Oh  _ God. Lou. _ Where is his fucking phone? He fumbles among the blankets, finding it again, and unlocks it with shaking fingers. Harry’s a limpet on his back, kissing his neck, questions a million a minute but he doesn’t have time to answer them - he’s not even really listening - because  _ Lou. _

The call connects.

“Nick? You alright?”

“Lou,” he sobs. 

“Nick?!”

“He remembers!” Harry yells over his shoulder, and his ear is ringing but he can still hear the answering whimper down the line.

“What? Nick, you? Do you-”

“Lou, Lou, I do, I’m so sorry, God I’m so-”

“I’m coming over,” Louis says, and he can hear bangs and crashes. He can see it now, Louis tripping out of Liam’s spare room - he can  _ picture  _ it, because he’s been to Liam’s loads of times, he’s best mates with his two boyfriends. That bang was Liam’s front door, with the green paint and the golden knocker, and it’ll take Louis twenty minutes to walk it.

He’s not walking it. He can hear thudding trainers against the pavement. 

“I’m coming out,” he decides, because if he can even shave thirty seconds off this time, he will. He untangles from the duvet, phone still pressed to his ear, and grabs Harry with his spare hand, tugging the two of them out to the entryway. He stuffs his feet in shoes, breaking down the backs, and vibrates while Harry tugs on boots, and then they’re out, running full pelt down the street in the direction of Liam’s.

“Where are you?” Louis pants.

“By the cafe-”

“I’m just round the-”

There he is. Nick isn’t built like a runner, not like Louis with all his football, or Harry with his daily jogs, but he pushes one more time. He’s pretty sure he’s sweaty, disgusting, he can barely breathe - Louis crashes into him anyway.

Oh God. It’s been nearly three months. He sweeps him up and round, knows how much Lou hates that in public (knows how much he loves it in private, God he  _ knows) _ but he can’t help it, he just needs to feel him in his arms again.

“You remember?” Louis asks, quiet in his ear, his arms tight around Nick’s neck. Harry’s clinging onto them both, keeping them all upright, because Nick’s knees feel a little weak. Yesterday he thought he was fine. He thought he had everything he needed. He was so wrong.

“I remember,” he promises. “Lou, I’m so sorry, I remember everything I said that first day and-”

“Shh,” Louis shakes his head, pulling back, and presses a finger to his lips. “It wasn’t your fault love, not your fault at all, you didn’t know.”

“I’m so sorry-”

“No, I hated you too back then,” Louis laughs, and it’s sort of wet and shaky but it’s the best thing he’s heard in weeks. “If you’d shown up in my flat I’d have been worse, you know I would.”

They’re in the middle of the street and they’ve caused enough of a scene to draw attention. He’s still winded and Louis’ clinging to him, feet barely touching the ground. Fuck, Harry’s in pyjama bottoms, an old t-shirt of Nick’s, and chelsea boots. They all look a state. He doesn't care.

“Can I kiss you?”

He more than wants to. He needs to. But even though it’s not busy, anyone could be watching. 

“Please,” Louis whispers, and that’s good enough. He kisses him firmly, sure - a familiar kiss, a kiss with history. A kiss with a future. 

“Get in here Haz,” Louis says eventually, breaking free when they’re both in sore need of air. He kisses Harry’s jaw, turning Nick and Harry into each other, and it’s easy to follow his direction. He’s missed Harry, right there but so far away. 

“That’ll sell a few papers,” Louis smirks as they pull away, Harry’s eyes heavy and lidded. It thuds in Nick’s chest, what they’ve done. He thought it might rip them apart, the day they let everyone know. Now he can’t think of anything worse than not having the two of them. There might be some unsavoury comments, some hurtful articles, but they’ll get through it.

“Come home?” he asks Louis - asks them both, really. “Come home and stay?”

They both smile, and it’s like sunshine. He understands why they have half the world hanging on their every move. He doesn’t quite understand how he got so lucky, but he’s not letting it go again. 

Louis leans up again, steals another kiss, and then snakes their hands together, turning them in the direction of their flat. “‘Course,” Louis says, settling the slight flutter of anxiety in his chest. “Always.”


End file.
